


A Dozen Times Your Lips Touched Mine

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...returning, Anger, Arguments, Character Deaths, Crime Scenes, Fluff, Forgiving, Grief, Holidays, Kisses, M/M, Old Age, Rain, Relief, Retirement, Tiny bit of Angst, Weddings, dark corners, leaving..., mrs hudson - Freeform, music recitals, showering together, talk of retirement, two way mirrors, very very brief mentions of sexual activities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-08 08:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10382589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: Sherlock and Johns first kiss, their last kiss and ten other kisses in between.





	1. Their First Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a long time coming.  Everyone had seen it, even Sherlock and John knew it was going to happen eventually, but neither were ready for it until this very point in time.  It was a journey that they had both travelled.  A journey that had seen them endure pain and frustration, grief and heartbreak in order to reach the final destination.  This very spot at this very time.  They had both had to grow, to learn about themselves.  In the back of their minds, they both knew it was coming, which was why when, one hundred and seventy six days after the Musgrave incident, neither John nor Sherlock were surprised, nor uncomfortable, when after a chase through several backstreets of London in the middle of the night, they had returned to Baker Street and, before John had left to return to his suburban flat and relieve Molly of her baby sitting duties, they had parted with a kiss.  

It hadn’t been an earth shattering moment.  There had been no fire works or swooning, no breathless pantings, no biting or tongues pushing into mouths.  In fact, there had been hardly any tongue at all.  The entire affair had been rather tame.  It was perfect.

Sherlock had followed John down the stairs to see him out.  John had turned to bid his friend farewell.  It had occurred to the two of them, who were standing a bit closer than normal, that maybe it was time.  Maybe they had finally reached the place where they were supposed to be.  Maybe they were ready.  So John had taken a small shuffle of a step forward and Sherlock had bent his head down.  

At first, their noses had knocked together causing the two to pull back, just a fraction of a fraction before pushing forward again, this time angling their heads to a degree that helped them slot together comfortably.  Sherlocks lips slid over Johns and Johns hands came up to rest on Sherlocks arms.  John parted his lips, just a tad and the tip of his tongue gently traced over the seam of Sherlocks lips.  Sherlock brought his hands up to softly cup Johns face and they spent the next minute bestowing tiny kisses upon each others mouths.  The world outside ceased to exist and for the moment it was just the two of them.  Dirty, exhausted and both feeling more alive and more cherished than either of them had ever felt before.  

Eventually, the kisses ended and the two men parted, but only by a few centimetres.  

“I should go” John said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Sherlock gave a short nod, his hands dropping from Johns face to his shoulders.  “Tomorrow?” he asked, his tone also hushed as if they spoke any louder than the peace that had finally settled between the two men would shatter. 

John smiled. “Tomorrow” he repeated and then, pushing up on is toes, he placed a small, chaste kiss on Sherlocks lips once again and then turned and left 221 B Baker Street.

 


	2. The Naked Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should work allow it, I am hoping to get a chapter up a day. Unfortunately I can't actually promise this, but I will most certainly try!  
> Hope you are all enjoying the story and thank you for all your comments and kudos'. They are all hugely appreciated and muchly loved.

~~~~~~~~~~

 It was 8:45 am and Sherlock had had enough.  He and John had been together for thirty six days and anytime they had tried to move their relationship forward something came up.  A case. A teething baby.  A client.  An unexpected visitor.  A call for John to go into the clinic.  Exhaustion.  Whenever the two of them got more than a bit handsy with each other someone interrupted them.  This was why he was now standing in Johns room, in Johns apartment, stripping off while John was in the shower down the hall.  It was Sunday morning.  There were no cases.  If there were clients then they sure as hell wouldn’t find them here.  The clinic John worked at wasn’t open and Rosie, bless her chubby little cheeks, was actually sound asleep after apparently being up all night crying and just being miserable as three new teeth continued the slow, painful process of cutting through her gums.  

Sherlock had arrived at the flat and let himself in.  The sound of the shower indicated that the baby was asleep - or at least settled enough that John could be out of her sight for a while.  A quick check confirmed the former, so Sherlock had decided that come hell or high water he was going to have this time, alone, with John and it was not going to end with one or the both of them falling asleep on the couch.

Quietly he padded down the hall and eased the bathroom door open.  A small smile graced the mans lips as he heard John quietly humming the tune to some song Sherlock was unfamiliar with as he moved the sponge over his skin.  The glass was foggy, due to the steam from the hot shower, but it was still clear enough to see that John had his back to the door, his head tilted down so as not to get a face full of water as the his hand reached behind him to scrub at the back of his neck. 

It wasn’t until Sherlock opened the shower door that John realised he was no longer alone and he quickly spun around, arm raised, ready to attack, nearly slipping over in the process.  It was Sherlocks steady hand that darted out to catch him which stopped him from sliding back against the wall and the moment he realised it was Sherlock, his body relaxed and the dangerous look to his face melted away into something that would have been fondness if it weren’t tinged with a hint of embarrassment.  

Without a word, Sherlock stepped into the shower cubicle, ignoring the fact that it really wasn’t big enough for two grown men, and let the door fall shut behind him. 

Silently, John wrapped his arms around Sherlocks waist and pulled him closer.  “Is this a habit of yours, slipping into unsuspecting peoples showers?” He asked, trailing a hand up Sherlocks spine.

“Only yours” Sherlock replied, letting his own hands glide around Johns waist until they rested in the small of his back.  

Despite knowing each other for years, living together for half that time and being in a relationship for just over a month and he had never seen John without a top on, had never felt the soft skin that was usually hidden by jumpers.  

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now” he murmured as Johns hands splayed over his shoulder blades and gave a gentle tug forwards.  Sherlock moved closer, as close as he could get and a small gasp passed his lips and Johns mouth came into contact with his chest. 

“John” he whispered as a clever tongue worked away at one of his nipples.  “I’ve been wanting to do _that_ for a while” John admitted, parroting Sherlocks previous words. 

“John” Sherlock whispered again, after all, there was really nothing else to say.  

The rest of the shower passed as the two of them learnt each others bodies.  They touched and tasted, found places that made the other man giggle and ones that made them moan.  They groped and pawed at each other, sliding and rutting against the other until the now cooled water washed away the semen that had briefly covered their hands and stomachs.  

“Come home with me” Sherlock whispered into Johns ear as they held each other once more.

“Yes” was Johns reply and he tilted his head up and finally kissed Sherlock for the first time that day, long and hard, using tongue and teeth.  His yet unshaved stubble scraped against Sherlocks skin making that very man groan at the sensation. Neither of them cared that the water had dipped below room temperature.  “Oh, god.  Yes” he repeated roughly into the kiss.

 


	3. A Goodbye Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

The goodbye kiss that they should never have had to make, but was made all the same.  At least, by Sherlock it was.  

It was a kiss that follwed many words.  Angry words at first, and then pleading ones.  It was a kiss that was meant to temporarily heal and sooth the hurts and tears that had been the cause from having to leave.  It was not a final kiss, of that Sherlock was determined, but it was also not a kiss willingly given between two partners.  It was a kiss given in the dead of the night with hopes that the sleeping man who it had been bestowed upon would still feel it when he awoke.  

Not even twenty-four hours before that kiss was given Mycroft had come to Sherlock with reports that there was still a person out there not convinced that Mary Morstan was dead.  That person still wanted revenge and that person was not above taking it out on her husband and eighteen month old daughter.  He went by the name of Sebastian Moran.

Moran was a dangerous man.  A man whom Rosamund Mary the First had once worked with and then moved on from, apparently taking information that could lead to his arrest as well as a rather large amount of cash.  These accusations were neither here nor there as far as Sherlock was concerned.  His only concern was that his family was in danger and Sherlock was not about to sit back and watch what he had fought so hard for, and lost so much to, be ripped apart and destroyed once more.  He would not lose John or Rosie.  

Therefore, not trusting Mycrofts men to carry out the task quickly or competently he knew it was up to him to put a stop to Moran himself.  To take that danger away from the two people who held his heart.  

It was why he had to leave.

John hadn’t seen it this way.  He had agreed that Mycrofts men were too easily bought or blackmailed and would not be as effective or efficient as Sherlock at solving the whereabouts of Moran, but he wanted to go with Sherlock.  

Sherlock had refused straight away.  Moran was dangerous, volatile and had nothing to lose.  It was John he was after.  He wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet in Johns head.  Sherlock would not allow Rosie to become an orphan.  John needed to be kept safe, if not for Rosies sake then for the more selfish reason that Sherlock could not live without him.  

They had argued long and hard.  Insults had been thrown.  Threats had been made.  Requests had been pleaded.  In the end they had decided that they would talk about it in the morning, when they had both slept and the emotions weren’t so raw.  

John had gone to bed and Sherlock had listened as he tossed and turned, not able to fall asleep.  In the end he too had gone to bed and wrapped John up in his arms and held him until the the smaller mans breathing indicated that he was in a deep sleep, exhaustion from their argument and twelve hour shifts at the clinic taking their toll.

Sherlock removed himself from their bed, dressed in the dark and then made his way upstairs.  

In the muted light, thrown in from Baker Street, Sherlock watched as Rosies chest rose and fell with her tiny breaths.  He watched the way her lips formed a tiny pout and her nose scrunched up, obviously finding something in her dreams not to her satisfaction, before falling back into a relaxed state.  Gently he stroked her hair.  

“I’ll see you soon, Rosie bud” he whispered, using Johns ridiculous term of endearment and then he turned and went back down stairs.  

It took seconds to pull on his coat and tie his scarf and then, silently he made his way into their bedroom.  

John was huddled under the quilt, his face and body tense - possibly still angry at Sherlock...at the situation life had once again put them in.

Sherlock crouched by the bed and studied John in the dim light for a bit longer.  There were new lines in his skin, his hair looking darker and less grey in the darkened room.  Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled, taking in the scent of John.  It was a scent that had comforted and soothed all manner of ill’s in the past.  Tea, wool, bergamot and gun oil.  It would be a scent that would see him through this next part of his life.  

He didn’t know how long it would take but he would return.  

Opening his eyes, he saw that his hand was resting gently on Johns cheek.  He hadn’t even been aware that he had moved, but John seemed to have sensed it as the lines in his face had smoothed out, just a tiny bit and it made Sherlock want to cry.  

He didn’t want to leave John again, especially not like this, but he knew that if he waited for John to wake then John would never let him leave and Sherlock had to leave.  He had to find Moran and end him.  He had to keep the Watson’s safe.  

Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth against Johns.  “I’m sorry” he whispered against Johns lips.  “I love you, John Watson” and he kissed him one more time before standing up and leaving Baker Street, alone, one more time.


	4. An Angry Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

He knew the sound of those feet on those stairs, despite them sounding more hesitant than usual.  They were feet that hadn’t graced those stairs in five months, two weeks and four days, not since they fled down those very same stairs in the dead of the night without so much as a goodbye….without Johns feet fleeing down after them.  

At least this time John had known he was alive.  Every now and then a gift, posted somewhere from various parts of Europe, would arrive in the mail for Rosie.  A stuffed toy, a book, a set of stackable wooden dolls.  It didn’t matter what it was or how much Rosie had loved it, John had appreciated it more for what it had actually been.  A message to John that Sherlock was still alive.

That hadn’t quelled the hurt that had balled in Johns chest any.  Nor had Mycrofts reassurances that he was being well tailed by his men.  He wasn’t going solo this time.  That had just made the hurt worse.  

But now, here he was.  Climbing the stairs to 221 B Baker Street, after clearly succeeding in eradicating the problem that was Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock was home.

The absolute feeling of joy at hearing those feet on those stairs was marred with rage and bitter resentment all tied up with a string of relief.  John stood up from where he was sitting in his chair, finally relaxing for the night (as much as he had been able to these past few months) now that Rosie was asleep, reading a novel he had picked up on a whim at the shops the other day.  It hadn’t been a great book, but it was okay enough to keep turning the next page.  

It was also okay enough to ditch at the tosser who slowly opened the door to their living room.  

Sherlock managed to duck to the side, just in time to miss getting pegged in the face with the flying book.  Once the shock at almost being hit with flying literature had passed he turned his attention to John and John saw shock in those eyes.  Shock outlined with weariness and a hint of uncertain happiness.  It was that happiness that did John in and in three long strides he was in front of Sherlock.  He had wanted to punch the arsehole, but after the incident with Culverton Smith he had promised he would never lay another hand out of violence on the man.  So instead he grabbed him by the lapels of his stupid coat and pulled him down and kissed him.  

The kiss was hard and desperate.  It was five and a half months worth of kisses and anguish and pain and tears rolled into one.  It was five and a half months of calming Rosie, who had become frantic when her Papa hadn’t come when she called.  It was five and a half months of regular nightmares that woke John sweaty and gasping for breath, tangled in sheets and blankets.  

It was five and a half months of trying to live as if it were all fine, when it really all wasn't.

All of those feelings and thoughts were put into the kiss, which Sherlock happily returned as his hands roamed Johns back, cupped his cheek and then gripped tightly, as if afraid John would disappear, onto Johns waist.  

John sucked Sherlocks bottom lip into his mouth, remembering the taste he never really forgot, using his teeth to bite lightly, before releasing it and then pushing his tongue into Sherlocks mouth.  A small cry left the other mans throat as he let Johns tongue swipe over his, before returning the act.  For what could have been hours, but was in reality less than a minute, the two of them stood there releasing emotions that had been pent up for five and a half months on each other in the form of that one kiss.  Fear, guilt and longing on Sherlocks behalf and anger and rage and worry on John’s.

Finally, John withdrew his mouth and placing one final soft kiss on Sherlocks swollen lips, he looked him in the eye and said “Fuck you.”   Then he let go of Sherlocks coat, spun around and marched to their bedroom, slamming the door just so Sherlock knew he wasn’t invited to join him.

That night, he slept better than he had in five months, two weeks and four days.

 


	5. Their Most Public Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a shorty this time, from Rosie's POV.

~~~~~~~~~~

Despite it being their most public kiss, it was still a rather private affair.  They had just said their “I Do’s” and three year old Rosie was spinning circles behind them, watching the skirt on her white satin dress flair out, not understanding the significance of the words her fathers had just uttered.  Nor did she understand why the crowd applauded when they kissed.  They kissed all the time.  They kissed in the morning and in the night time.  They kissed in the loungeroom, the bedroom, the kitchen and the bathroom.  They kissed hello, goodbye and goodnight.  They kissed Mrs Hudson sometimes and they always kissed Rosie.  Rosie liked the kisses on her tummy that turned into raspberries the most.  They made her giggle.  But never when they kissed did people clap for them, so what was so special about this kiss?

Rosie stopped her spinning and watched as her Daddy and her Papa stood close to each other.  Just like her they were wearing their best shoes and prettiest clothes.  Daddy had even had his hair cut, specially for this day.  They held hands and when they kissed they smiled.  It was a lot like their normal smiles but this time it was so much happier.  It was much happier than the smile that she, herself had had, when she got the _Rainbow Dash_ My Little Pony for Christmas.  Even their eyes were smiling.  It was a long kiss and when it finished they rested their foreheads together and kept smiling at each other, not caring that people were still clapping, and then they kissed again.  This time just quickly.  That was when the music started and this seemed to make the kissing stop.  Her Daddy and her Papa turned to look at everyone and the clapping got louder.  Some people were cheering and someone even whistled.  Nanna Hudson and Grandma were both smiling but they were crying into their handkerchiefs too.  Even Uncle Mycroft looked happy.  Rosie wasn’t quite sure what was going on.  Should she be clapping or should she be crying?  It was just as her bottom lip dropped and started to tremble because she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, when suddenly she was swooped off of the ground and she found herself in her Daddy’s arms.  

“We’ve not forgotten about you, Rosie Bud” he whispered in her ear and she instantly felt calmer when she felt his lips press against her cheek.  As she cuddled her arms around her Daddy’s neck, her Papa came up behind her and he pressed a kiss on top of her head.  

“Our little family” her Papa said quietly and her Daddy squeezed her just that little bit tighter.

 


	6. An Inappropriate Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

 It wasn’t the best place to be kissing but it couldn’t be helped.  Well, it could have been helped, but neither man wanted to bother holding off until they got home.  

It had been a day of rushed mornings, long shifts and missed phone calls.  By the time John had got home from work, Sherlock was out and Mycroft, of all people, was sitting with a five year old Rosie on his lap, reading her a story about a zebra who had lost it’s stripes.  Had the eighteenth text message from Sherlock not come in, just as John had taken off his coat, he would have taken the time to make video footage of the look on Mycrofts face as he read out “ _He even tried wrapping himself in a stripy scarf…”_

 _“But that didn’t work at all!_ ” Rosie finished for him, knowing the book off by heart.

Needless to say, the man was happy to hand child rearing duties back over to John, who then had to wait for Mrs Hudson to return from her book club ( _It’s romance, dear not erotica_ ) before he could finally leave the house and catch up with Sherlock.  

As usual, the man was being brilliant and once he had finished spewing forth deductions at lightning speed, managing to throw an insult or two in between, he finally noticed John, standing to the side and the annoyed look that was on his face slid right off only to be replaced with a rather large grin.

“Finally” he muttered, crowding up to John in a matter of a few large steps.  

“I had to wait for Mrs Hudson to get back from book club.”

“And she goes on about inappropriate message tones…the hypocrite.”

A small giggle left Johns mouth.  “It's romance” he reinforced and Sherlock just smiled down at him. 

“I missed you” he said quietly.

“You saw me this morning.”

At this a small frown replaced Sherlocks look of mild longing.  “That was hours ago, and you didn’t kiss me goodbye.”

“That’s because you turned my alarm off and I woke up twenty minutes after my shift officially started.”

Sherlock just pouted in return.  “Two seconds, John.  That is all it would have taken.”

John reached over and, placing his hands on Sherlocks waist, pulled him closer.  “Then I guess I had better give you a hello kiss to make up for it” he smiled and Sherlock smiled in return. 

Despite the people milling around and someone crying in the background, John angled his head up and placed his lips over Sherlocks.  The man’s smile widened into another grin under Johns lips and John took this as his cue to deepen the kiss. It was just as he had pushed his tongue past Sherlocks lips when they were suddenly interrupted. 

“Oi, you two.  Dead body eight feet away.”

John pulled back abruptly and looked to Greg, who was trying to look annoyed, but his smile was sort of diminishing that.  Instead he jerked his head towards the dead body that was indeed lying on the floor, not really even eight feet away.  

“It’s not going anywhere” Sherlock groused, looking over Johns head to not only Lestrade, but the couple of other cops who had stopped to look as well. 

“Yeah, but, I don’t think she appreciates it” Lestrade answered, nodding towards the woman on the other side of the carpark, who was looking their way and crying harder than before.

“That was her boyfriend, wasn’t it” John quietly asked Sherlock, looking at the dead body not too far away.

“Might have been, yeah” Sherlock answered under his breath.

John had to turn back away and bury his face in Sherlocks coat to stop the snort of laughter from being heard by anyone else, especially the grieving girlfriend.  The fact that Sherlock was hiding his own laughter by pressing his face against the top of Johns head wasn’t helping matters.

“Not really appropriate” John finally managed to get out.

“Probably not” Sherlock answered, both men still trying not to giggle like school girls.

“Home?” John asked.

“Probably for the best.  I’ve told them all they need to know.”

And hand in hand, the two men turned away and headed for the main road.  No one tried to stop them.


	7. A Secret Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

The music soared and swelled, each note perfectly following the one before it, joining together to create the piece that should have been too complex for an eight year old to play perfectly.  But as the notes for ‘ _He’s a Pirate_ ’ from The Pirates of the Caribbean filled the auditorium Sherlock was currently sat in, he felt Johns hand tighten around his own as their daughter stood in the centre of the stage performing her first of three solo piece of the evening. 

Sherlock had never heard the piece until she had come home from music lessons two months ago, waving the sheet of music in front of him, excited that she got to play pirate music.  

So now, Sherlock and John sat at the back of the room, watching as Rosie stood centre stage, dressed in violet, completely lost in the music.  

As much as Sherlock had had an epic fit over John deciding that a second teacher for Rosie would be best, he could now see that it was a good idea.  That second teacher had given her a more modern freedom that Sherlock was oblivious to and while he had taught Rosie the first two years, and had taught her well, the new instructor had also made her more relaxed as Rosie was not so worried about disappointing  her as much as she had been about letting Sherlock down if she had failed, not that he had ever given her reason to worry.  She was either going to be good or not.  She was either going to put in the effort or she wasn’t.  

The results had been that she had put in the effort and she was good.  This performance, her first chance at playing solo to a room full of more than family and friends, three years after picking up the violin for the first time, was testament to that.

As the song crescendoed and the bow made a final stroke up, the crowd applauded, but no louder than the two men in the back.  Rosie made a small bow and then, seeking her fathers out in the audience she gave them a shy smile and then walked off stage.

Once the applause died down and another student came onto the stage, this one carrying a flute, Sherlock felt a tug on his hand.  He looked over to see that John was standing up, and walking away.  Not caring about the next performer, Sherlock got up and followed John, who stopped just to the back of the hall.

“That was marvellous” he beamed and Sherlock was sure there were tears in his eyes but without adequate lighting, it was hard to be sure.  

“It was” Sherlock agreed, taking Johns hand. 

“She worked so hard.  The both of you did, and now here she is.  God, she was so much better than the other kids although, I might just be a bit bias.”  A small huff of laughter accompanied the end of his sentence.  

“Not at all” Sherlock countered.  “She was the best one so far and I dare say, will be all evening.”  

Another chuckle left Johns mouth and he leant against Sherlock.  

“John” Sherlock said, his voice low.  John looked up at him and in the dim light he could see that John knew what he wanted to say.  That she was perfect, John was perfect, their life was perfect, but he didn’t say those things.  Instead he lowered his head and kissed John in the darkened corner of the performance hall, away from any wandering eyes while some kid in glasses played something on his flute.  Sherlock couldn’t care less about the kid on stage, who was clearly not of Rosie’s calibre, and instead concentrated all of his efforts on the kiss and making sure it conveyed everything that John meant to him.  

It was a kiss, just for John, not to be shared with anyone else.  It was Sherlock telling him that he loved him, had always loved him and would always love him.  

“Come on” John said after a while, pulling back from Sherlocks mouth.  The kid with the flute was gone and there was another one with a violin again.  “Rosie will be back on in another three songs.” 

Quietly, they made their way back to their seats and sat, fingers entwined, while they listened and waited for their daughter to make her next performance and all the while Sherlock couldn’t help think about how perfectly his life had turned out.


	8. A Not So Secret Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

 It was as the third person entered the observing room in the space of four minutes when Greg decided that something was going on.  As far as he was aware, the interrogation room that that observation room looked into wasn’t in use at the moment so, gathering up his photocopying (one day, he would get the printer in his office fixed) he made his way down the corridor and into the room.

In the room were Donovan, Hopkins and Dimmock, all starting at the two way mirror all with different expressions on their faces - Donovan looks like she wanted to tear her eyes away, but couldn’t, Hopkins looked like she was thoroughly enjoying whatever it is they were viewing and Dimmock looked as if he was trying to figure out a rather vexing problem.  It was about then that a deep moan filtered through the speakers and without even looking, Greg knew exactly who was in that interrogation  room.

“What are you lot…” Gregs words cut off as he finally viewed what all the others were looking at.  There, in what they had probably assumed was a quiet, private area, was John, pushed back on the table, his legs wrapped around the waist of the worlds only consulting detective, who was leaning over John, one hand placed up next to Johns neck, the other, wrapped around the outer curve of Johns thigh.  Even if the glass hadn’t been two way, he was pretty sure neither of them would have been aware that they had an audience as they were too busy almost having sex, right there on the table.  

Now that Greg was all the way in the room, he could hear the soft panting that was coming from the speakers along with the wet smacking sounds that could be heard every time one of them would pull their mouths away from the other man.  

“I just came in to pick up these” Donovan muttered, holding up a stack of files in her hand, her eyes still not pulling away from the scene playing out before them.

“I watched those two sneak in there and thought I’d see what they were up to” Hopkins smirked. 

Dimmocks mouth just flapped open and closed and then resumed its previous position of hanging half open.

Another moan came from the other side of the mirror as Sherlock seemed to devour John, his mouth completely engulfing the smaller mans.  It was about that time that Greg decided that enough was enough.  If he didn’t put a stop to this soon then they were all going to get a glimpse of something that none of them really wanted to see…well, Hopkins may not be too disturbed, but judging by poor Dimmocks current reaction, he’d never recover, should the two men in the other room move to next base.

Greg raised his hand and tapped on the glass.  There was no response so he tapped again.  If they had heard anything, then it had just urged them to go at it even harder as Johns hands moved down to Sherlocks arse.

Jesus, they had been together for just over 11 years and they still had the fire and passion of a couple who had just got together.  It was no wonder everyone was watching.  Poor bastards were probably trying to get a glimpse of what they were all missing in their own lives.  

With more force Greg curled his fist and pounded on the glass.  This seemed to get their attention and as if someone had inserted a live wire between the two of them, they jolted apart.  

“Right you lot, out” Greg instructed and somewhat reluctantly, Dimmock and Donovan left the room.  “You too Hopkins” Greg said and with a sigh the woman pulled herself away from the glass and walked out of the room.  

Greg smirked as he took one last look into the interrogation room to see the two men hastily straightening themselves out.  As he met them in the corridor the smirk grew as he took in their reddened lips.

“Maybe pick a room without a window next time, yeah?” Greg suggested.  “Or better yet, keep it at home.”

John looked away bashfully, Sherlock just straightened up.  “Jealous?” he snipped and then stalked off.

“Too bloody right we were” Greg called after him and with a nervous chuckle, John followed Sherlock out of sight and Greg let out a sigh.  

He was too old for this shit.


	9. A Grieving Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock felt numb.  Surely he should feel something, anything.  Pain, remorse, anger, guilt, sorrow.  Even slightly put out would be something, but he felt nothing.  Absolutely nothing as he sat in the hard plastic chair and held the cold hand of the woman he had loved as a mother, of the woman who had loved him as a son.  

All she had done for him and he felt nothing at her passing away.  He couldn’t even force himself to cry.  Couldn’t even pretend.  He had known her for 27 years and he felt nothing as he sat in the darkened room and waited for her niece and her husband to arrive from Glynneath.  They would have the funeral arrangements.   

The nurses had left just over half an hour ago, turning of the heart monitor and the oxygen tank and removed all the other equipment that had helped eased the symptoms and the pain of the disease that had slowly destroyed the woman from the inside out.  

Four months it had taken.  They hadn’t even known she was ill until it was too late.  Breast cancer.  Stage 4.  It had started spreading.  It was too late.

Sherlock held her hand in his and just sat, waiting to feel something - anything, until footsteps came up behind him and stopped.

“Rosie?” Sherlock asked as Johns small hands rested on his shoulders, giving a comforting squeeze.

“Mycroft has taken her back to his for the night.”

“How is she?”  His voice was flat.  To a stranger listening in it would seem as if he didn’t really care, but John wasn’t a stranger.  

“Upset.  But she’ll be fine.  We knew it was coming.  She’d made her peace with her.”

Sherlock just nodded.  There was silence again.

“I’m a bad person, John” he mumbled into the still room.

A sharp inhale sounded from above and then there were two strong arms wrapped around his chest.  “You, Sherlock Holmes” came Johns voice, low and rough, trying to hold in the tears that Sherlock couldn’t shed.  “Are a good man.  And she knew that.  She _always_ knew that.”

“Then why don’t I feel anything” Sherlock asked flatly, looking down at the lax face of his landlady.

John’s arms only tightened their hold.  “But you do” he answered and this time he didn’t try to hold back the tears.  Sherlock could hear them in his voice and feel them from where Johns face was pressed against his neck.  “You feel so much, but you show it differently, we all do.”  

Sherlock brought his hand, the one not holding Mrs Hudson’s hand, to rest on Johns arm, wrapped around his chest.  The touch brought some comfort.  It always did.

“She saw in me what others didn’t.  She trusted me and respected me and never expected me to be someone I wasn’t.  I died for her, John and I can’t even muster up one pitiful tear in her passing.  Why can’t I fucking feel sad?” And suddenly, he didn’t feel nothing any more.  He felt angry.

Johns arms dropped from his shoulders, long enough for him to come around and kneel in front of him, where his hands took Sherlocks free hand and held him tight.  

“She was always going on about us looking after ourselves and then she goes and ignores the early signs that she was dying.  She could have lived, John.  She could have gotten the treatment and still lived, but she was too busy knitting and playing bridge and going to her god damn book clubs to take notice that her body was failing her.  Why did she not notice?  How could she not notice?  Why did she have to die?” and there it was.  The tears he couldn’t even fake a moment ago.  Nothing and then a torrent of them.  Once he started, he couldn’t stop.  They came, as did the accusations that the woman, whose hand he was still holding, had neglected to stay alive.

Finally the rant ended and he found himself with his face buried in Johns shoulder, sobbing like he hadn’t since he was quite young, Mrs Hudsons hand no longer in his.  John held him close, fingers stroking through his hair, and let him grieve.  When the sobs stopped he looked up to John, to see that he too had been crying.  

John rested his forehead on his and tangled their fingers together.  “She had a good life, Sherlock” he said, quietly.  “Because of you, her life was better.  And she had a full life.  She was happy and she had people that loved her.  That was all she wanted, and because of you, she had it.”

Sherlock swallowed the retort that John was giving him far too much credit.  “I drove her mad, John” he said instead, because it was true.

At this a chuckle left Johns mouth.  “Only when you shot holes in the wall and left toes in the oven.”

Even that pulled a smile from Sherlock, small that it was.  

“She wouldn’t have had it any other way” John told him.

Sherlock had no words for that, so he pushed forward and placed a closed mouth kiss on Johns lips.  Just a small one, to affirm that John was still there, that only one person had left his life that day.  John kissed back and then stood up where he proceeded to pull Sherlock into a half hug that had Sherlocks head resting on Johns hip.

They spent the rest of the night that way, until Mrs Hudson’s niece arrived, with John holding Sherlock as they sat vigil by a dead womans bed and when the sun came up, they went home to a not quite full house.

 


	10. A Holiday Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

The warmth of the day was fading and the chill of a late summer evening was creeping in, but neither man cared as they stood, wrapped in each others arms, looking out over the grassy field and to the water beyond.  It had been a good idea going on holiday, just the three of them.  Rosie was at that age of early adolescence, and spending time with her fathers had become dull and boring, and on more than a few occasions, embarrassing, so John had decided that before their happy family unit cracked under too much strain, the three of them were taking some time out to recoup and capture some of what they had had before puberty had settled in 2212 B Baker Street.

And it had worked.  It had been a good idea.  The first 24 hours had been hard with both Sherlock and Rosie wandering around the small cottage they had rented, looking for the best wi-fi reception.  What John hadn’t told either of them was that he had spoken to the real estate agent who rented out the cottage and had asked her to disable all access to the internet.  When no results had been found there was sulking and complaining and long drawn out declarations of boredom.  The following day had been a vast improvement.  It had involved a sleep in, a late breakfast and then the afternoon down at the beach, followed by dinner at the only pub in the town, fifteen minutes away, where Rosie playfully teased Sherlock over his pink nose and cheeks because he had, once again, ignored Johns advice to reapply more sunscreen.   

Upon return to the cottage, Rosie had taken herself to her room to work on her blog (which she briefly bemoaned about not being able to post until they re-reached civilisation), which consisted of detailing the life of a teenager (because apparently teenagers these days need to read about what other teenagers were doing) and John and Sherlock had retired out on the porch with a bottle of wine and watched as the last tendrils of daylight were washed out by the night sky.  

It was as the night fully settled that they stood up to go inside, the flashing light of a boat at sea stopping them.  Together they watched the light bob up and down against the night sky and John thought of the other time when a boat had bobbed up and down on choppy waters, so, so long ago.  

“We should move out here, when we retire.  It’s lovely” he murmured, resting his head on Sherlocks chest as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist.

“It is, quite, isn’t it” Sherlock agreed quietly, looking down at the man in his arms.  

John looked up at Sherlock.  “Although, we should probably focus on surviving high school first.”

Sherlock grinned down at him.  “Now there is a task that deserves a holiday at the end of.”

John grinned back up at him and pushed up on his toes to kiss the man.  As always, it was reciprocated with love and tenderness and a cheeky hint of tongue as a prelude of what more was to come later in the evening.  

“I never thought I’d live to see retirement age” Sherlock confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.  “And I most certainly never thought I would have someone by my side when I did.”

John kissed the man again.  His man.  His impossible, frustrating, adorable genius of a man.  “You’ll always have me by your side” he promised, pulling away from the kiss.  

Sherlock placed a small kiss on Johns forehead, the tip of his nose and then the corner of his mouth and then, taking his hand, he led John back into the cottage and up the stairs to their room.


	11. A Kiss to Forgive

~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as he entered the flat he knew John wasn’t home.  Despite Rosie, sitting on the couch, sketching out another image in the sketch book she  had taken to carting around lately, the flat was too silent.  Especially one that should be containing a brooding, if not still fuming doctor.

God, Sherlock couldn’t even remember why they had started arguing, nor why they had let it go on for so long but it had erupted into an epic fight of the likes that they hadn’t had since before they ventured into their relationship and had then ended seven hours ago with both men yelling things that neither meant and then Sherlock grabbing his coat and storming out of the flat, purposely ignoring any text messages or calls that had come through on his phone.  

A quick look to see that John’s coat and his brown shoes, the ones he preferred to wear in nasty weather, were gone confirming that he was definitely not in the flat.

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket.  There were several missed phone calls, all from Lestrade or his brother - neither person worth worrying about - and twelve text messages.  Eleven from people, including the two already mentioned, that Sherlock ignored and one from John, sent over two hours ago.

**Let me know you are okay.**

Sherlock had answered that one as soon as he had read it twenty minutes ago and decided then that it was time to come home.  He was no longer angry. But John wasn’t here and he hadn’t replied to Sherlocks text, or returned back to the flat.

“Where is Dad?” Sherlock asked Rosie, once he had got her attention. The seventeen year old looked up at him and plucked out one of the earbuds, a man asking where the library was in Spanish could be heard as she did so.

Sherlock repeated the question.  “Went out about an hour ago.  Something about tossers and oncoming storms.  I assumed he was looking for you” she stated as a matter of factly a slightly worried look on her face.

“Did he say where he was going?”  Rosie just shook her head.  

“Did he take his phone?”  This time Rosie nodded her head.  “Yeah, but he told me to only call if it was an absolute emergency because the battery was low.”

Sherlock thought for a bit, the only sounds were the rain on the roof and the Spanish man now asking how his day was.

“Bloody, Shit” he mumbled under his breath and Rosie must have heard, and understood as a small smirk graced her lips. 

“Are you and Dad okay?” Rosie asked, the worried look returning to her face again.  “I have never seen you this angry at each other.

Sherlock stroked his hand down Rosies hair.  “Trust me” he answered softly.  “We’ve been through worse” he assured her and then, without another word Sherlock turned and left the flat.  It wasn’t like John to go after Sherlock when he had no clue where the man was, especially in this weather.  These days, this sort of weather made Johns shoulder ache, so he tried to stay in, where it was warm and dry, whenever possible.

Sherlock stepped outside and, silently thanking the rain for letting up, just briefly, set about finding John.

In the end it took and hour and twenty-six minutes.  That long of searching their usual haunts or places that had sentimental reasons and it was as Sherlock was getting out of the cab at Barts that he saw a familiar figure crossing the road, hunched up against the rain, which had started to fall again.

He crossed the road, following John and reached out and grabbed his arm once he caught up with him.  At the touch, John seemed to instantly relax and slowly he turned around to face Sherlock.  He looked tired and worried, but he also looked happy and relieved.  Sherlock stepped up to John, relief washing over him as well and leant down to kiss John.  

Thankfully, John brought his hands up around Sherlock and, pulling him closer, kissed him back.  The kiss was hard and heavy and probably not suitable for public, but Sherlock didn’t care, and grabbing John by the arse, he pulled him closer.  A deep moan left John, barely audible over the rain falling around them, when Sherlock sucked Johns bottom lip into his mouth.  

‘ _I’m sorry’_ the kiss said.  ‘ _I forgive you_ ’ it confirmed. ’ _I love you’_ it screamed. ‘ _Don’t ever leave me’_ it begged. ‘ _I’ll always be here’_ it promised.  It said things that both men wanted to say, but neither could manage to vocalise, but that was okay because they both understood.  It was all fine and it always would be.

 


	12. Their Last Kiss

~~~~~~~~~~

  Sherlock stood at the bathroom sink and swallowed the small pill down with a mouthful of water.  These days it was needed if he were to get any decent sleep, and lord did he need the sleep.  As it turned out, he had no choice in the matter any more.  He hadn’t really done so, if he were being honest, for the past twenty or so years.  If his body wanted sleep, then sleep it got.  The tablet just ensured the pain from the arthritis in his knees didn’t disturb him until he got a enough sleep that made sure he didn’t doze off mid morning the following day.

Slowly he made his way to their bedroom.  The sounds of the old cottage they had bought thirty years ago, settling in for the night sounded a lot like his joints felt more and more each day.  Slipping under the covers, John, who still went to bed earlier than Sherlock, stirred and mumbled something unintelligible.  Sherlock switched out the light and rolled onto his side, his fingers threading through Johns, which rested on his stomach, and he placed a kiss on Johns temple.  

It was a few seconds later but he felt John half turn so he could place a kiss on Sherlocks face, missing his lips and getting his cheek instead.  “Love you” was the sleepy murmur before he rolled back onto his back and fell back asleep.  

“Love you” Sherlock murmured back and closed his eyes in order to get a solid seven hours sleep.  It didn’t take long for the small white pill to take effect.

 

Sherlocks mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to get the taste of stale saliva to wash away with that of fresh saliva before his eyes slowly peeled open.  Judging by the light in the room, it was going to be a nice day.  Minimal cloud.  No rain.  Those days were always the best.  

It took a few seconds more to register that he wasn’t alone in the bed.  That was most unusual, as John tended to wake before him and was no longer able to lay around in bed, waiting for Sherlock to rouse as his joints stiffened up and his bladder protested too much, so the fact that there was still a body lying next to him instantly sent alarm bells ringing in Sherlocks head.  

Slowly he swivelled his head to the left to see that John was indeed still in bed.  His face was peaceful and soft, his grey hair still sitting neatly, as he didn’t move around in bed much anymore.  The blankets were pulled up to the middle of his chest and his hands rested over them, in the middle of his sternum.  His sternum which was absolutely still.  There was no gentle rising or falling, there were no slightly huffed breaths coming from his perfectly still nostrils.  

A deep, slow wail left Sherlocks mouth as his hand reached out to grasp Johns wrist.  Frantically his fingers felt around to find a pulse but there was nothing.  Not even a slight flutter under his frail fingers.  With another mournful cry Sherlock shuffled over to his husband and wrapped an arm around his waist and buried his face in his neck.  The skin was cold.  Too cold.  There hadn’t been life in this body for a while.  

“John” he sobbed, holding the man close.  “You promised” he pleaded.  “You promised to always be by my side” he cried, his voice choked and feeble, the words only just managing to make it past his tongue.  “Always.”  And, with tears pooling in his eyes, he placed a kiss to Johns temple and held the man he had loved for over fifty years.

 

It was four and a half hours later that they were found.  Rosie had come around, as planned, to take her fathers out for the day.  It was what they did on the second Saturday of every month.  A trip to London, to visit what remaining friends they had and to visit old haunts.  They would spend the night at there daughters house and then return home on the Sunday.

Rosie had found it odd, when she arrived, that there was no one to welcome her at the door, but it also wasn’t unlike either of her fathers to be up to some kind of mischief, losing track of the time.  When she let herself in she became a bit more concerned to find that the curtains hadn’t been opened.  Then there was the fact that last nights dinner dishes were, washed, but still on the drying rack.  Dad always made a habit of putting them away first thing before breakfast.  

“Dad” she called out, making her way to the back of the house.  “Papa” she called as she reached the stairs.  There was no answer.  Quickly, fearing the worst, she made her way upstairs and to her parents room.  What she found broke her heart.  

There, in the bed, was her papa, wrapped around her father, crying silently as he held a dead man to his chest, his lips pressed to the side of his head.

It took a further three quarters of an hour to pull him away.  

 

Four days later saw the funeral of John Hamish Watson-Holmes.  Born 11th April 1971.  He was a Doctor, Soldier, Blogger, Amateur Detective, Son, Brother, Father,  Grandfather, Husband.  Survived by His husband, William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, aged 91, daughter, Rosamund Mary Evans, aged 51, three grandchildren and one great grandchild.  Passed away in his sleep 27th August 2067 from the results of a stroke.  He was 96 years old.

Sherlock sat in the church barely noticing the funeral go by.  People spoke.  They said such wonderful things about his John, but no words could ever really capture the wonder that the man had been.  

Afterwards people filed to the front to pay their last respects.  Rosie sat by his side and held his hands as person after person streamed by to say their final farewells.  It took a while - after all, John was a much loved person.  It was easy to understand why, as it was, he had warmed the heart of the only Consulting Detective in the world - a man who saw sentiment as one of the biggest flaws a person could possess.

Finally, the only people left in the church were Sherlock and Rosie.  Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, Rosie stood up and made her way over to her father.  Sherlock couldn’t hear what she said to him, his hearing had gradually deteriorated over the years, but the way she bent down to place a kiss on the mans brow was enough to have tears welling up in his eyes once more.  Tears he had managed to hold back during the entire affair.  

Straightening up and turning around, Rosie gave him a gentle smile.  “Do you want me to stay?” She asked, her voice horse from holding back tears.  Sherlock just shook his head.  He knew that if he opened his mouth only uncontrolled sobs would come out, so with an understanding nod of her head she made her way to the back of the small church and exited the building, leaving Sherlock and John alone, for the last time.  

Slowly, ignoring the twinges in various different parts of his body, Sherlock stood up and made his way over to the casket at the front of the room.  

Inside was his partner.  His colleague and friend.  His lover and husband.  Inside was his John.  Reaching down he ran a hand to smooth over a wrinkle in Johns suit.  It was his grey one, with the blue shirt.  It was a nice suit.  It made his eyes stand out that bit more.  

“Goodnight, John” he whispered and leant down and placed a kiss on Johns lips, one last time.  

 

The following morning Sherlock Watson-Holmes was found in his bed, passed away peacefully in his sleep.  An autopsy would find no natural reason for his death, but suspected no foul play.  It seemed his heart had just stopped beating.  Those close to him knew better though.  John Watson had kept Sherlock Holmes alive for so long that he simply didn’t know how to live without the man.  There was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson.  It was a simple as that.  And that was fine.  For Sherlock had found someone who loved him and had, in turn, learnt how to love in return.  They had had a love that was experienced by few and envied by most but most of all, they had each other and that had made them happy.  It was all they could have ever asked for.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so technically some of these are more than one kiss, but we're just counting the really significant ones!  
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> NTW


End file.
